I looked straight into his eyes and answered earnestly, "Last year my uncle promised to give me one of his shotguns."
Again there came a new and stronger explosion of laughter. What was the matter? Were they laughing at me?
My uncle came to my rescue. "Brave boy," he said, patting me on the shoulder. "I'll take you if your father consents, and you shall have a rifle instead of a shotgun. We need some one to see to our horses."
Then the meeting began to discuss plans. It was decided that about two hours after midnight all who were going were to meet outside of the village at the crossing of the road to Bear Valley. Only two dogs, wolf hounds owned by Laddeef, were to be taken.
When I returned home, I said nothing to my mother of my share in the skodka, but when shortly after midnight I heard my father's heavy steps go out to feed the horses, I arose quietly and dressed, not forgetting my fur overcoat and cap and my warm felt boots. When my father returned, his beard white with frost and snow on his deerskin boots, he looked at me with a mingling of surprise and satisfaction and exclaimed: "You up! What's the matter?"
"You seemed willing that I should go on the hunt," I stammered, fearful of a refusal at the last moment.
"Seemed willing," my father repeated with a slight smile.
Here my mother who was now up, broke in quite excitedly: "You are surely not going to be so crazy as to let Vanka go."
That saved me. Father always disliked any interference, and now, in addition, mother's tone angered him.
"Father," I begged, before he could speak, "mother thinks I'm a baby. She doesn't understand that I'm to be raised like a Cossack and not like a lamb. Uncle will take care of me."